


Drabbles and Oneshots

by VividWriter (VividReader365)



Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: AU, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, Unspecified/Non-Canonical Events, abuse of brackets im sorry i don't know how to italic or bold or anything here, even after literal years of studying English..., im sorry :(, immortal!AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-15
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:11:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22260427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VividReader365/pseuds/VividWriter
Summary: Hey, thought I'd post some of my work from Fanfiction.net here. Like the other platform, I probably won't upload all that often, since I should be studying more.1) Fall: Aphmau falls, but not really; they learn that Irene always rises.2) Enki's Library: Aphmau is alike Irene in many ways and simultaneously, somehow, none at all.3) Alina: Alina is the light of her life, one of the few remnants of the man she had loved (too much; too late) once upon a time.
Kudos: 7





	1. Fall

**Author's Note:**

> Aphmau falls, but not really; they learn that Irene always rises.  
(or,)  
They had always knew she was dangerous. They just never realised why.

They spin in unison as her scream rings out, desperate and terrified yet so god-damned determined. Those on the battlefield pause at the sight of Lady Irene (Lord Aphmau, she would always be Lord Aphmau in their hearts) on her knees… Her white dress is stained with blood that steadily spreads, and a blade is ran through her.

No, no no nononon-

They want to scream--desperate, pitiful pleas build in their lungs but not a single one of them allow it to escape their crushed throats and clenched jaws; this is a battlefield, a war, and thus weakness cannot be shown.

They want to pray, beg, prostrate themselves by the Matron's feet and offer everything they have, everything they have and are worth, in hopes that they could escape this... this nightmare.

But it isn't a figment of their overly-imaginative (and frankly, unhealthily paranoid) minds.

(Though is it paranoia when they're really out to get you?)

Surely that was not Aphmau, but rather a stranger with the same raven coloured hair, sun-kissed skin and wide, amber eyes.

Surely that was not Aphmau (their lord; their light; their love), frozen as though she had been struck by paralysing magicks during the fighting, with blood dripping agonising slowly down the violet blade.

The blade of her lover, Aaron, not theirs.

(Violet, violet, violet, not green or blue or red-- never would they let it be their blade that pierced her body)

(it never could and never would be theirs).

Shad smiles down at them, a smile of a madman, yet one of jealousy and resigned guilt.

He had won. Their battles, the grueling preparation, the children that grew up too quickly, the memorials and graves and lost ones… it all boiled down to this.

Failure. Loss. He had won.

Raven locks fly wildly in the wind as she falls, caramel eyes (wide with horror, fear, pain) staring both blankly and intensely into nothing (into the void).

Lean legs, defined with years, decades; no, entire centuries and millennium of training, in order to protect those she loved… they crumple beneath that shaking torso, and she falls to her knees, by the feet of her sworn enemy (her once lover, her mortal weakness), and she-

She pulled the knife from her chest and smiled.

"Was that supposed to hurt?"

(He wasn't really a mortal weakness, was he? Then again, wouldn't the better question, was she ever mortal?)


	2. Enki's Library

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aphmau is alike Irene in many ways and simultaneously, somehow, none at all.
> 
> or, an exploration of the library leads to the line between them blurring but neither care too much, too nostalgic and sad and tired to care that much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple of warnings...
> 
> use of pronouns repeatedly in place of nouns because I was feeling weird in September/October of 2019, when the initial draft was written, mention of death and reincarnation I guess, and if there's more don't hesitate to tell me.

They had been frantic. There are splatters of ink, the imprint of bitter, regretful, exhausted tears and in latter pages, the dull garnet of ancient- yet vibrant- blood.

She wonders, how did the author manage? Isolation in these mind-numbingly cold mountains, with what feels like never ending echoes… already, she feels as though she's lost her mind.

It's barely been a week.

She studies the books, carefully marking the location of those that truly had content; words of ink, visible to the human eyes and not memories, memories of what she is- once was, once had.

Candles flicker. Lavender and cinnamon fills the air, masking the scent of (decades, centuries, millennium?) old parchment and books. She ignores the pang of nostalgia, ignores the taste of their cinnamon buns, the light touch of their embrace.

Breathe in, breathe out. In, and out.

Shadows dance around the edges of her peripheral vision. She doesn't turn, doesn't let hope blooming in her that he's there.

Because he's not. He's not there; he isn't here; he won't be by her side. Not any more.

Her face is wet. She's surprised. She thought she ran out of tears after the first three days of sobbing, weeping and begging for forgiveness.

(Please… I-I'm so sorry! Im so sorry! Please forgive me…!)

(... she knows she doesn't deserve it...)

Breathe in. Immediately, the sinfully heaven-like smell of cinnamon and lavender fills her from head to toe… their favourite spice, and flower, respectively. Briefly, memories (of a hand to hold, of a promise to forever- why am I still here, then?) burst to the forefront of her mind and overlap the sight of the terribly large, terribly lonely library. She's careful (regretful, emotional) when she breathes out.

She has three weeks left.

Despite its fine, sturdy leather binding, slender fingers tremble, slow and steady as they turn delicate pages yellowed with time and piercingly quiet, in the silent, silent library.

His work begins in structured, flowing paragraphs and his writing is neat, easy to read. His explanations are laid out well, fluent to read as though he was there and talking to her...

She manages to locate the corresponding notebooks with his additional notes, and can't help the pride, adoration, admiration searing her soul as she reads through them.

He poured his time and energy into these, it's obvious. He was always the scholarly type and adored recording information, even in the later reincarnations she remembered.

(Or was it her previous reincarnation that knew this? After all, her version was more dedicated to protecting his people with his sword… even after they turned their backs on him for something as trivial as his heritage, the ungrateful wretched people that they were.)

(... with both, all, of them though... she never could protect them properly. It was why she slept for so long, why she's here and searching for answers now. Why is she such a failure?)

Breathe in, and out. It grows colder, the fire now a faint glow that splutters instead of the merry cackling earlier. She sighs, shakes her head to rip her head out of the clouds and goes to rekindle the fire.

3 weeks, 21 days, 254 hours give-or-take before she will be forced to attend to other duties, if she's lucky.

She knows that a single lifetime will not be enough to uncover her past, as long as her immortal(?) life has been so far, nor the lives of those she cherished (still cherishes), but damn if she won't do her best to find out why he had changed so much, what in the name of the gods she had done to hurt him so badly that he (her almost-lover, most trusted comrade, her best friend)... hated her so.

Why does she feel the urge to just end it all, to just, repent for her crimes through a simple, swift slice?

She needed to know... she wanted to know. What had her past self done?

... her soul still misses him. Both of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This had been produced in an English lesson, as I daydreamed and pondered how Aphmau would've/could've/should've reacted when exploring Enki's Library... 
> 
> Overall, I was inspired by the library scene, and was curious as to an alternate response to the remnants of her (??) friend- especially since Irene had taken over a couple of episodes ago. 
> 
> What could their combined, acknowledged existence in the one body have led to? Perhaps, more emotions like regret and guilt from Irene, over the sheer frustrated confusion of Aphmau who was desperate for answers. 
> 
> I don't think I quite achieved it, but eh?
> 
> EDIT, 08/04/2020: I, uh, though I posted this with the first chapter. Apparently not. Oops?


	3. Alina

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alina is the light of her life, one of the few remnants of the man she had loved (too much; too late) once upon a time. 
> 
> She wants- needs- those bright, amber eyes so alike hers (and mind-numbingly alike his, when their- her- little sweetheart is determined) back.
> 
> No matter how far she must travel, she'll get her little girl back.
> 
> She needs her back. She doesn't know what she'd do if those bright, bright eyes don't come back with her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost violent paragraphing ahead. I'm in a weird mood, I guess. Please enjoy nonetheless?

The trip down the stairwell is awful, steps deceptively frail and she denies the urge to flinch once again, as a bone-chilling crack resonates throughout the air. 

Scowling, she continues down what seem to be never-ending stairs. Taut features twist further, brows furrowed and lips drawn into a snarl. The air is stale, cold and unbelievably disgusting. 

It reminds her of when she first found the previous Lord's diary, when she rescued that werewolf pup, when she found Malachi's mother… it reminds her of a lot.

(The stench of ashes and blood grows stronger. Her heart skips a beat.)

Briefly pausing, she reminds herself of why she's here, why she's in this dusty, dirty, dank stairwell; why she wants (needs) to do this. She carries on. 

Calloused, slender fingers nervously stroke the strong, sturdy fabric wrapped around the blade, which shifts with each step… yet fails to produce noise. 

Which is good, except the constant silence is driving her crazy… 

_(Had driven her crazy, slowly but surely all these centuries ago as she lived and lived and lived…)_

_(They had lived, died and repeated the cycle. Reborn; rise, descend, repeat. Birth, live, death- repeat.)_

_(Wake, wash, sleep. Repeat.)_

The silence is deafening. 

How long has passed? Minutes, hours, days? Should she take a break; rest and replenish her body's growing need for food, water and rest? 

The door, dark like obsidian and similarly foreboding, answers her question- no. 

Again, she grasps the bandana around her blade. Deep breath in, slow breathe out. Ba-dum. Ba-dum. 

She opens the door. 

Her scream is silent. 

**Aaron is- was- a man of honour, of virtues and righteousness. Despite his lone-wolf, slightly snarky attitude, his habit of travelling separate from the group (due to _years_ of travelling alone, living in isolation…) he was a kind man. A good man, that helped her without need nor question, who stayed by her side as one-by-one, her friends left, who she loved-**

**That isn't Aaron. It can't be. He couldn't- wouldn't have killed Little Alina, her light, her hope, their daughter--**

Little, blank eyes stare back at her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had this done in like, October/November last year and typed up by 19th December lol, but never posted it because I didn't realise it wasn't. The summary may sound off with the actual chapter because i only slightly edited it before posting it, and simply... don't remember the feelings that drove me to write this. Before I lose my nerves, imma post this and hope for the best haha :>

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note: 
> 
> Hey there, this isn't the same as the one on FF.net since I wanted to make a fresh, new introduction I guess? Mm, you can call me Vivid, or V for real short. 
> 
> English isn't my first language, although it is a predominantly spoken language where I live, so while I try to beta my work, the grammar may be incorrect. 
> 
> Sometimes, however, I like having run on sentences, to create a long rambling effect, or cutting things off to help create achieve the effect I want? If there is something you believe could have been accomplished better, feel free to leave constructive criticism!  
15 JAN 2020


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